


When Fenris Meets Fenris

by ranchelle



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranchelle/pseuds/ranchelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris gets to know himself in many intimate ways.<br/>Birthday gift for Frikadeller@tumblr.  Al and Connie Hawke belongs to Frika.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Fenris Meets Fenris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frikadeller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frikadeller/gifts).



What vile magic is this?  A moment ago I was with Connie, and now here I am looking at myself.  Not in a mirror.  He is in every way my likeliness.  I let a growl resonate deep in my chest as I close in on myself, no, on this _impostor_.  

“ _Back off_ ,” I tell him with my eyes.  He, predictably, doesn’t.  I step on his foot and he stumbles backwards.  He growls and reaches for his sword, but the fates smile on me today.  I push him a little further and he finds his back to a wall with no room to pull his sword out.

He rasps, hunching more into himself and turning feral.  I know myself well enough to know what is coming.  There is no space for swords between us.  My tattoos flare up not a second after his does.  He is strong, slamming into me, but my footing is steady.  I pull up my arms to take the hit.  The throbbing heat of lyrium is a steady drumbeat pulsing through the both of us.  Even in the Fade, it should be impossible to make a shadow of myself so real and… _warm_.

I push him off and his steel fingers dig into my exposed upper arm, tearing ragged bloody gashes along it.  He uses the wall to push himself off and lunge at me.  I use his momentum against him and slam him into the ground.  I hear a bone crack and he groans.  He is fast to recover and kicks at my legs.  I fall.

I hear a young man’s voice from behind me, and more footsteps.  This bright tenor voice seems to thoroughly distract this shadow of mine.  Good.  Any crack in my opponent’s armour will not be wasted.  I jump back onto my feet and go for the kill.

“Don’t!” a familiar voice comes as I pounce, but my body moves faster than my mind can order me to stop.

I am on him; my left hand holding him down by his shoulder and my right striking.  It’s too late to stop even as my mind registers the low, husky voice as Connie’s.

Something shoots through me like a spear of lightning, and my body jerks up in shock.  My arm is stayed, half an inch into his chest.  The burn in my shoulder spread, as if a hot brand is pressed onto my skin.  I draw my now-paralysed right arm slowly away from my opponent.  The Fenris beneath me pushes me off, curls his armoured fingers around my neck and slams the back of my head to the ground.  I grab his hand and try to pry it off, but the grating pain digs deeper into my shoulder and chokes out all the remaining air in my lungs.

“No, no, stop!” comes the young man’s voice again.  My vision blurs as I struggle to breathe.

“Al,” my aggressor calls out, “he’s an impostor.  I’ll get rid of him.”

“No, no, no!  Let him go, Fenris!”  this Al of his yells, alarmed, looming over me and prying my impostor’s claws off my neck.  The chokehold on me carefully loosens and I cough, my starved lungs trying to take in air.

“He’s not the enemy, Fenris.” The husky alto is unmistakably Connie’s voice.  I feel my wariness fade a little, hearing no urgency in her voice.

“Connie?”  I push myself up with my elbows but there is something; I look over my shoulder and see an arrow stuck in my right shoulder, grinding between my bones.  Connie is strolling over, putting away her bow.  I know there is no battle to be fought for now and I slump to my side to rest a moment.

“Are you all right?”  asks Al, checking my lookalike for wounds and looking sort of alarmed when his hand came away from the back of the impostor’s head with blood.  I smirk inwardly, spotting more of my handiwork on his legs and back.  There is blood on his armour and gauntlets too, but I think it is mine.

“I am fine,” growls the impostor to his golden-haired companion.

“No you’re not.  You’re bleeding all over,” wailed this young man, pulling out bandages from an injury kit to staunch the bleeding wounds.  When the young man glanced over at me, his jaw drops and he stutters apologies at me.

“I…I’m so sorry, Fenris!”  Is the golden haired boy addressing me?  His dark blue eyes are wide.

“It’s all right.  He deserved it,” drawls Connie.  She kneels down and pulls me up so I can sit.  The young man tosses her a spare injury kit and she catches it.

I hunch over from the stinging pain and and glared at her.  ”You shot me, woman.”

“It will take nothing less to stop you when you’re on a roll,” says Connie.  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.  Her brows are knit and I can hear her voice breaking.  She is hurt by the irritation in my voice.  True as my accusation may be, she did what she had to; I am sure she did not enjoy loosing her arrow on me.

If only she knew how I could never get angry at her.  But the thought of her abandoning what little consideration she has for holding back her strength chills my bones.  I’m not sure even my battle-hardened body can take much more abuse.  

I can’t encourage her.  I give her a mildly disapproving look.  Her downcast eyes, sky-blue under the golden sun, raise to meet mine and I cannot help but surrender my heart in her hands, callous and calloused they may be.

“I knew what I was getting into when I got myself involved with you, Hawke,” I give in to a sigh, curling my lips into a resigned smile even though my shoulder is burning in pain.

That always makes her smile, even if it is the twentieth time I’m using that old line.  And then I regret cheering her up, for the Connie-brand tough love, revitalised, comes back into play.  She yanks the arrow out of my shoulder without so much of a warning and as well-prepared as I am for pain, my vision blurs with tears.

“Connie!” gasps Al.

“Ugh,” the other Fenris winces in sympathy.

“Don’t be babies,” mutters Connie, rolling her eyes.

_Don’t slap my back, don’t slap my back_ , I pray as she finishes tying the bandages around my shoulder.  

“Good as new,” says my Hawke, satisfied with her handiwork.  She raises her hand and I see it coming.  She slaps my shoulder.  Right over the bandaged arrow wound _she inflicted_ and this time tears do roll out.

“Fenris?” asks Connie, concerned when she sees me rubbing my eyes, “did I hurt you?”

“Dust.  Eyes.”  I coughed to cover a sob that escapes my throat.

Connie herds us to Darktown, and I wonder if the abomination will have a reaction to our situation.

The clinic is closed, but the mage is probably still within, since he’s not bothering the others presently.  Connie removes a plank boarding up the clinic and we enter.

At a table in the corner, the mage is drooling on a stack of what must be his manifestos-in-progress, quill in hand, ink staining his cheek where it lay on the ink-scrawled papers.

“Anders,” Connie strides over and shakes him, “get up.  Fenris needs your healing.”

“Hmm? IsjusyouHawkenngh,” mumbles the mage.  He stirs and I blink in surprise, caught off guard by his face.  He must have been punched in the face for he is sporting two very black eyes.  Wait, those are…  This is unbelievable, his dark circles and eyebags are the size of eggs.  He doesn’t rise, weaving a spell from where he sits.  A wave of healing magic washes over me and heals most of my wounds.  The pressure from the arrow wound lifts.  I roll my shoulder.  It feels a little bruised but is otherwise fine.

“One more heal spell for Fenris here,” chirps Al.

“Mmm?  IthoIjusshealedim?  Imssheendoubbubuuu,” murmurs the mage, completely unfazed, his bleary eyes sweeping from me to the other Fenris.  He throws out healing magic with such ease and familiarity he could do it in his sleep, and he does, and heals the other Fenris.  I see my impostor flex his arm and rub his neck, checking their mobility.

“Canaigobabushleepnaaa-” the mage snores not two seconds after his head slumps back down on the table.  Connie sighs and slides her arms under his, pulling him off his chair.  I suppose even a dancing ogre will not draw so much as a mumble from this sleepy apostate.

I quickly help with his legs and we carry him to his cot at the back of the clinic.

“Rest well, Anders,” says Hawke, as she draws a blanket over him.

“I see your Anders is as overworked as the one we have,” comments Al.  

“He is much more tolerable when he is unintelligible,” smirks the other Fenris.

“Don’t be mean,” pouts Al.

“He should rest,” I say, and Al looks to me approvingly, “for he’s less annoying that way.”  Al pouts again.

Both my impostor and I look to the Hawkes, waiting expectantly for an explanation.  Connie and this Al boy should know what is going on.  It is not in my nature to question anything.  Hawke seems to know what she is doing and I trust her.

“You could ask, you know.  You look like you want to,” says Al.

“I trust you to tell me in good time,” replies the other Fenris.  ”And that you will do what is right and get rid of this…impostor here,” he sneers at me.

_You’re the fake here,_ I glare back.

“You’re both real, Fenris,” explains Al.  He looks like a golden haired puppy with large, soulful, sapphire blue eyes.  I reach out, curious, wondering if his hair is as soft it as it looks.

My impostor swats my hand away.

“Keep your hands off my Hawke,” growls the other Fenris.

“…my apologies,” I mumble.  I had not meant to reach out to touch anyone.  I am usually not one to succumb to fickle curiosity, but somehow I feel almost compelled to touch Al.

Connie looks at me, then moves over to Al, clamps a large hand over his head and rubs his hair.  I feel satisfaction seeing the other me narrow his eyes.  I know it means he is squirming inside and raring to pry my Hawke off his.

“Woah!  Connie!  What are you doing?”

“I just felt like touching your hair.  I don’t think I’ve seen anyone with such golden hair like yours around Kirkwall, Al.  Fenris here wants to touch your hair too,” smirks Connie.  ”Don’t you, Fenris?”

“Sure, go ahead!” invites Al.

Connie jerks her head towards Al, gesturing to me that I have permission to touch him.  I take off my gauntlet and reach out to touch the fine golden locks.  Connie claps her hand over my wrist and presses it firmly onto the back Al’s head.

“Like this,” she says, and moves my hand in firm strokes over the head of gold.   I let her, feeling the soft warm hair under my fingers.

I can hear the other Fenris making uncomfortable gurgling sounds in his throat.

“So the thing is, Fenris and me, the both of us somehow found ourselves here after a little incident,” says Al, worming his way out of mine and Connie’s hands.  He sets his clothes straight and runs his fingers through his tousled hair.

“Al and I just came back from the Black Emporium,” adds Connie.  ”We’ve come to the conclusion that they were somehow sent from an alternate world that is pretty much the same as ours.”

“We should be able to get back in no time,” says Al, always the bright and chirpy one.

“So you say, Hawke.  We have been here for three days now,” mutters the other Fenris.

“For the time being until you find a way back, you are welcome to stay in my mansion,” offered Connie.

“We should be able to go back soon,” says Al optimistically.  ”After all, Xenon’s told us out straight the way to go back.”

“What would that be?” Al’s companion asks.

“Umm…you know, I, er, at the Black Emporium, uh, made a wish,” Al stutters, his eyes straying to the ground as if his boots were the most fascinating things ever.

“And?” The other Fenris taps his foot impatiently.

“There is a solution,” says Al, “and it requires both of you to get along for some time without fighting.”

“Simple enough,” says the other Fenris.  I nod.  I am in no mood to provoke him further and I think he too, does not see any point in fighting.

“And you both have to work out your umm…issues together.”

“What sort of _issues_?”  I narrow my eyes.

Al coughs.  It is a most deliberate cough.

“Please do elaborate,” says the other Fenris dryly.

Connie gestures for us to follow her, “Come on, I’ll explain when we get to my place.”

She leads us up the stairs to the second floor of her mansion, passing by Sandal, who does not do so much as scratch his bottom seeing my lookalike.  He tells Connie that Bodahn and Orana wouldn’t likely be back until morning.

“Are you sure it is wise to let a dwarf teach her to drink?” I muttered, having seen Hawke’s elven servant come back with the dwarf, giggly and stinking of wine, on occasion.

Connie throws the doors to her bedroom open and beckons me over with her hand.

“You too,” Al nudges the other Fenris.

“Take off your gauntlets and breastplates.  I don’t want you hurting each other,” says Connie.  We grudgingly comply, our armour and everything metal soon neatly piled at the corner of the room.

“You wish us to stay here quietly?” I venture.

“Maybe not that quietly, but yes, something like that,” says Al, looking hopeful.

My Hawke straightens herself and towers over the rest of us.  The other Fenris cannot help but hunch over a little under her severe demeanour.  

_I know that look._

A commanding aura exudes from her in waves and wraps around us like the Mark of Death.  This is Hawke the _Dragon-slayer_.  Hawke the _Champion of Kirkwall_.  Hawke the _Big Boss_ we all listen to.

“Now you two, we’ll give you until tomorrow to kiss and make out.”

Normally, I would question her, but she used _the voice_ to give an order.  That low, soft voice, sombre and almost sinister; a voice she would use before facing full-grown, fire-breathing dragons, giving us a lowdown of her plans, which however crazy it sounded, none of us, not even Aveline, would dare deviate a hair’s breadth from.

All I dare to ask is, “is there anything…specific we need to do?”

“Not really.  Xenon told us that Al made a wish and it has to be fulfilled before they can return.  Which means you have to make out with him,” she pointed at my counterpart, “in all ways you and he know how.”

The _voice_ is still there.  Which means she expects to be obeyed.

Even the other Fenris in the room dare not go against her.  He turns to his own Hawke instead.

“Whatever in all of Thedas did you wish for?”

“That you’ll get to know yourself better,” Al says, before adding very softly, “ _sexually_.”

“Are you serious about this?”

“Deadly,” says the young man, his voice carrying a low resonance I did not expect.  Perhaps he too possess a commanding charisma not unlike Connie’s.

The other Fenris’s shoulders slumps in resignation and gives a slow nod, his face grim.  We watch our Hawkes gracefully exit and close the doors to the bedroom behind them and then look at each other.

“Let’s get on with it,” says this imposter, no, copy of me.

A battle this must be, if it warrants such solemn treatment from my Hawke.

I back this Fenris into the nearest wall and trap him between my arms.  I lean in I can feel his breath on me.  A faint smell of blood lingers on his lips.  Mine too, I suppose, for our scuffle earlier had my teeth draw blood from my mouth.

“So, are we to simply have sex and be done with it?”  He scoffs.

“Perhaps,” I reply.  

From where I have cornered him, he does not submit.  His fingers grab my hair and holds my head down almost painfully.  I hiss as he unfastens the top of my leather tunic and sinks his teeth into the skin of my exposed neck.  I grab his upper arms and my fingers dig into them, trying to pull away from him.

He bites harder and I can feel my skin break.

“ _Fasta vaas_!” I curse, and smack his face away.  He growls, and I push his chin up, going straight for his jugular the same way he did to me. It is a fight for dominance.  I mark him with broken skin and he uses the wall in his favour to push me off.  I back off slowly, knowing that a cornered beast fights most ferociously.

A long moment of glaring, he gives in and sighs.

“Let us stop fighting,” he suggests, eyes flitting downwards.

I look down too and nod.  This is a pointless battle.

I move closer and place a finger on his lips and trail it down his chin, following the lyrium lines.  Carefully.   _Gently_.

He appreciates the care I take and reaches his fingers out to softly trace the lines on my exposed arm.

It is a strange feeling I cannot explain; to touch his brands.  I do not welcome unwarranted touch, and I can feel echoes of pain when the lyrium, embedded deep within in my flesh, are touched.  The lyrium on his fingers feel hot on my tattoos.  It stirs anxiety in me, having never felt this sensation before.  It’s like little burning pinpricks but I find myself yearning for more of that heat.

Knowing that he carries the same pain and feels as I do emboldens me to go a little further.  He challenges me by curling up the corner of his mouth.

“Cheeky, aren’t you?”

“And you are not?”  He raises a brow.  I breathe easier after our little exchange.

I unbutton his leather tunic and it comes off easily.  I press my marked palm on the brands at the base of his neck and his markings floods the room with blue.  His lit brands coruscate where our lyrium meet, the heat radiating off them like heated iron in the sun.  I lift my hand away and look at my palm, not the least reddened by what felt almost burning to touch.

His glowing brands fade to a candlelight-dim as I watch his heaving chest.  He is trying to calm down by taking deep breathes and I find it most fascinating.  I press my ear to his breast and listen to his heartbeat. 

He chuckles and I marvel at how I am listening to myself laugh.  I am captivated by how sincere his laughter sounds.  Soft, but it comes from deep within.  Is this how I really sound like?   _To Connie?_

I can feel his heart beating under the skin.  A morbid curiosity rises in me.  I have killed many, crushed many a heart in these hands of mine.  How does my own heart feel like?  Is it warm like the others, or has the lyrium in my veins turned it to cold, hard stone?  Or will it burn like it did when I pressed lyrium upon lyrium?

My hand alights with the Fade-accursed blue and I rest it over his breast long enough to prepare him.  

I take one of his hands, lift my head up, and press it on against my exposed neck in a bid to earn his trust.

_You can tear out my windpipe if I rip your heart out._

He leans in, plants a light kiss on the base of my neck and takes his hand away.  I read his gesture as a graceful consent.  I slowly phase my fingers through his chest.  He looks at my hand, as if he is just as curious as I am.

My whole hand is now brushed up against his heart.  I hear his fingers scrabble against the wall behind him, seeking purchase and finding none.  I wrap my free arm around his waist to still him.  He grabs onto my arm and I feel him brace himself for what comes next.

I materialise my fingers, my fade-touched flesh becoming solid once more.  The first thing I can feel is the pumping of all that warm blood around his heart.  Anticipation pumps through my veins as it always did when I made a kill.  I squeeze gently and I hear him gasp.  I look up and he narrows his eyes at me.  His eyes are darkened with fear but he makes no move to resist me.

There is no kill to be made here.  Only holding.  

_Holding_ onto a life.  

_Holding_ onto a heart that is beating in my hand, a heart no different from my own. 

_So fragile._

Slavers, bandits, mages, they’re all the same.  My heart is no less fragile than any of theirs.  A squeeze and it would all be over.  A rather painless death if I make it fast.  

I stroke his heart firmly with my fingers and unable to bite back his building gasps, he cries out loud.

The door _slams_ open and I jolt a little, eliciting another sharp cry from him.

“Take your hand out slowly, now,” says Connie in her most placating voice.  Both Hawkes stand in the now-opened doorway and we are pinned frozen under their gaze.

I dipped my head once, acknowledging their presence.

“I am not trying to kill him,” I say.

“Oh,” Connie blinks.  She knows I never lie. _Not to her._

“He’s not trying to kill me,” the other Fenris backs me up.

Al blinks too.

“Um, carry on then,” Al gentled his voice.  ”Please be careful with Fenris’s heart, Fenris.”

The other me bites back a moan but I hear it.  I turn my attention back to him and hear his shallow breathing quicken.  I loosen my hold on his heart a little and watch his face.   _Is he in pain?_  I do not know.  All I know is that I’m cradling his warm, beating heart in my hand and it makes me feel alive.

He leans in and flicks a tongue out to taste my lips.  I smile.  He covers my mouth with his and I give in to his intrusive, curious tongue.

I get a little bolder and I spread my fingers out to wrap my hand around the hot, throbbing organ, stroking it.  Muscles clench tightly around my hand as he gasps into my mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.  Discomfort, definitely, but he does not tell me to stop.  I tease his lips with my tongue.  He chuckles.  It vibrates in his tight chest and he gasps again.

I slowly phase my hand out and press it against the unbroken skin of his breast.  We look at my hand as the blue fades from it.  He kisses me again and the taste of blood is there still, on his cracked lips.

The warmth of his heart lingers on my fingers.

_We’re here.  The both of us.  We’re real._

“Oookay,” comes the voices from the door.  

_What, are they still here?_

“That was…pretty dangerous,” remarks Al, “but you…ermm…know what you’re doing, right?”

“Play nice, boys,” says Connie.

I turn to look at Connie and roll my eyes.  She’s grinning now.  Finally convinced we aren’t trying to decorate her bedroom with elf-blood, she and Al slowly close the door  behind them.  I hear the other Fenris give a little snort and I laugh.

“My turn,” he says, his breathing still heavy and his hands shaky.  I unbutton the rest of my tunic and he pushes it off my shoulders easily, letting it fall to the ground behind me.

He turns me around and backs me up against the wall.  I wrap a hand around his wrist to steady and guide it to my breast.  He takes my invitation and his markings flare as his hand passes through my skin like a hot and heavy fog.

And his fingers solidify.  It wasn’t anything I had expected.  There was no pain.  I was almost disappointed.  It didn’t feel much of anything at all.

Until my muscles start clenching, tightening around the intruding flesh; an insistent pressure building around his hand.  The pressure _grows_.  His hand grows hot.  Blood rushes to my head and instantly everything seems so clear.  I can hear the roar of blood in my ears like waves crashing over the sea.  I can hear my own breathing _inside_ me.  I bite back a groan and he supports me with his free arm before I even realise I was trembling.

I close my eyes and lean into him, nuzzling his jaw as I adjust to the sensation.  His fingers move a little and I moan into the crook of his neck.  He exhales, his breath hot, almost burning, on my ears.  He surrenders his neck to my teeth, giving me some semblance of control and power over him.

Full.  My chest feels so _full_.  Heavy.  Uncomfortable, even.  

But warm.

So _warm_.

All I can think of, feel, _believe in_ , is that insistent, almost cripplingly tight sensation around my heart; I feel it beating in his hand.  In _my_ hand.

As slowly and carefully as I did, he pulls out his hand.  I feel the pressure receding like a thick heavy mist drawn from my chest.  What felt full a moment ago now feels a little… _hollow_.  He holds his hand up and we stare at it as the blue fades from the lines.

I swallow audibly.  ”That…was interesting.”

He nods.  We stay there a while.

“To the bed?”  I suggest.

“Yes,” he agrees.

We sit ourselves down on the edge of the bed and look at each other, exploring each other with our eyes.  It feels comfortable.  Our _ritual_  had made sure to eliminate any trust issues we may have for anything that comes next.

I press him down onto the bed slowly, hungry for contact.  He pulls me on top of him and we find ourselves trying to get as much skin on skin as we possibly could.  Our glowing is now dimmer than the dying embers of a fire, but I can feel the pulse of his lyrium, feel the raised bumps of the lines.  It is almost as addicting as feeling his heart beat.  We kiss with ferocity, trying to taste as much of each other’s mouth.

I tug at the waistband of his leggings and he growls into our kiss.

“I’ll do it myself,” he says.  Reluctant as I am, I back off from the buzzing warmth of his skin.

He stands up and pulls his leggings down, letting them pool around his ankles.  He steps out of it, using his feet and long dark toes to pull them off his ankles.

A spark in his eyes tells me it is my turn.  Fair is fair.  I concede and stand up, pulling my leggings off unceremoniously for him.  He sits down on the edge of the bed and I stand before him. I slide a leg between his, rubbing and craving for skin.

He slides a hand up my thigh, and looks at me for a while before running his hand down the soft, sparse hair above my stirring cock.

I run a hand through his hair encouragingly.  I slide my hands away from the back of his head to his shoulders and watch him tease the tip of my cock with his tongue.

He is skilled.  I am not surprised, seeing his lover is a man.  I observe him to the best of my abilities.  Whether or not I will have use for this skill, I do not leave a debt unpaid.

When my cock is half-hard, he wraps his hand more firmly around the base and _devours_ the rest of it.

I bite back my moans as he moves his lips and hands up and down my cock relentlessly.

Not wanting to forget what I have learnt, I push him away before I can come in his mouth.

“Moving on so soon?”

I kneel at his feet and part his thighs with my hands.

“I may not be good at this, but allow me to return the favour.” 

“Why would you say that?  Do you not have many chances of making love this way with your Hawke?”

“Connie is a woman,” I tell him.

“…are you sure?”

I had to _stop and think a while_ before giving him a nod.

“You do not have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” I insist. I take his cock into my hand and feel it stir under my touch.  I follow what he did earlier, licking and teasing the tip until it twitches into life.  Once it is half-hard, I take it into my mouth.

“Don’t use your teeth,” he hisses.

I try to take as much of him into my mouth as I can, but it is too much for me to take whole.  I gag.  He slides out of me and I cough.  Undeterred, I try again, trying to open my throat to the growing cock.  He pulls out of me again and strokes my hair.

“You don’t have to take it all in,” he tells me gently.  ”You can use your hand to work what you can’t hold in your mouth.”

I do as he says, and he starts to move.  My fingers, encircling the base of his cock, stops him from thrusting into my throat.

“That’s enough,” he says.

“You are not even fully hard yet,” I tilt my head.

“I’m saving it for later.”  He climbs into the middle of the large, soft bed and pats the covers next to him.

“Here, you can take me first,” he says.

“I am unskilled.  Connie is a—”

“That is why you get to go first.”  His eyes dart around and he clambers over to the bedside dresser. 

“What are you looking for?”  I realise the answer before he replies, and I feel almost ashamed.

“Oil,” he answers patiently.

I know these things.  There were times I spent as a slave I would rather forget entirely.  He knows it too.

“This is Connie’s room.  I don’t think she has that here.  Sword oil, perhaps?”

“Seeing we do not have much of a choice here—”

A tap on the door interrupts him.  It opens ever so slightly and a hand, which I recognises as Al’s, reaches in and places a light-coloured vial on the carpeted floor.  The door quietly shuts itself.

“What is it?”  He asks.  I walk over to the door and pick the vial up.

“Oil,” I uncork it and sniff at it.  ”Orlesian stuff.  It’s rose-scented.”

“Great.  Our Hawkes are _voyeurs_.  There must be peeping holes in the walls.”

“Could be Isabela’s work.  I’ve caught her sneaking around here once or twice,” I concluded.

I climb onto the bed and pass him the bottle.  He sits up, leaning against the headboard and spreads his legs.  I watch him pour the oil generously into his palm, rubbing them over his fingers to coat them.  I take the vial for him and pour some oil over my own fingers.

“Let me help,” I offer.  He does not refuse.

I watch him rub fingers under his balls and over the pucker of his hole a few times before pressing into it.  He slowly works a finger into his ass up to his knuckle before slowly adding another.

When he works in a third finger, I pull his hand away and flip him onto his stomach.

He climbs onto all fours and turns his head, glaring at me, daring me to humiliate him.  I do not like to be mounted like a beast, and I believe he shares the sentiment.

I rub his hole with my fingers for a while, and he allows that much.  I give him a smile.  I lean in to lick the teased and reddened pucker with my tongue.

He shivers.

I spread his cheeks open and stretch open his tight hole as far as it would allow me with my thumbs as I dip the tip of my tongue into him, tickling the inner walls of his sensitive entrance.

He bucks up and his ass almost crashes into my nose.

I laugh and turn him over to face me.

“Ready?”

He snorts, but he willingly draws back his thighs and opens his legs for me.

I stroke his stomach gently to soothe him as I press my cock into his entrance.  I push in, slow but firm.  His stomach tightens, tense.  I spare him no respite, pressing into him relentlessly.  He does his best to relax and let me in, but my intrusion was too fast; his breath hitches and he tightens around me almost painfully.  I rub his cock gently between my fingers until he loosens up and I seize that moment to press in until the base of my cock lets me go no further.   

“You’re too fast,” he complains.  His tight ring spasms slightly around my cock and he bites back a moan at the sensation of being utterly filled.

“You don’t seem to dislike it.”

“Men need more preparation,” he says.

_Oh._

“I apologise.”

“Apology accepted,” he props himself up with his elbows and smirks.  ”Now move.”

I snort a laugh and started thrusting in and out to wipe that smirk off his face, building up my speed gradually.  I vary my strokes a little, and aim for different spots  to drive into.

“Ah,” he whispers.

“What is it?”

“There it is.  Don’t aim for that spot.”

“Spot?”

“Just avoid it.  I don’t want to come now,” he explains.

“…fine,” I mutter.

My cock eases into his ass easily when I thrust in; it is as if he is pulling me in, but when I pull my cock out, he clenches around it tightly.  I barely last a few more thrusts with his carefully crafted rhythm.

_I’m coming._

I still my body, feeling my seed spill hard into him.  His grabs me by the shoulder and rocks his tight, clenching, merciless ass up and down, milking my cock for every last drop of come.

I whimper, and he presses my head on his chest and hushes me.

He gives me no respite as I had given him none when I took him.  Before I can regain my senses, he rolls me over to my side and lifts my leg to rest across his hips.  He plays with my cock, now too sensitive, and anoints his fingers with the thick white liquid.

I bite his neck, letting him know I do not enjoy being toyed with any longer, and he gets down to business.

He drives his fingers into my ass, and I am surprised how easily my muscles give.  He sees my surprise and tells me my orgasm relaxed them enough to accommodate him.

It doesn’t take long for him to fit three fingers in me, and I hear a hum of approval when I start moving my exhausted body against those fingers, trying to get them to hit that particular _spot_ that sends sparks of delight up my spine.

“Face to face?” he asks.

“I’d like that,” I tell him.

He slicks himself with another coating of oil and takes me slowly, with much more restraint than I’ve ever shown him.  I feel his fingers coaxing my entrance to open up as he pushes in the tip of his cock.  It is almost too thick, and it burns a little.  I gasp.  He stops and strokes my inner thigh with a hand.

“Shh, shh, it’ll be all right.  You’re doing fine.”

I am tempted to roll my eyes at his words.  Yet at the same time, his hushing does have a calming effect over my breathing.  I watch him watch me as his cock push in slowly.  And then it stops.

“There, it’s all the way in now,” he breathes heavily.

I blink.  It doesn’t hurt as much as I expected it to.  In fact, the stinging sensation ceased a moment ago.

“You’re _good_.”

I look into his eyes and he knows I mean it.  He kisses me, and finds that _spot_ for me with every single thrust.

“Al says he likes me to make a little more noise,” he says, between thrusts.  ”Now as I listen to you, I see his point.  We are far too, _ah_ , quiet.”

“I will,” I muffle a moan, “take that into consideration.”

I feel the shudders in him that tells me he is about to come.  Being the fast learner I am, I clench my ass around his cock as he comes and a loud, unexpected moan falls from his lips.   _For me._  I made him do that.  The sound from his lips satisfy a hunger I did not know was there.  

_More._

He slips out of me and I turn him over.  His hair is glistening in perspiration and I can see him trying to ease exhaustion out of his voice with his breathing.  I plant kisses on his nipples, his ribs, his stomach and move downwards until I reach his cock.  I kiss it and begin to work on licking him clean.

“Ah,” he jerks away, much too sensitive for this.

I grin.  I cradle his balls in my hand and continue licking his softening cock, enjoying the sounds of his voice.  He indulges me, knowing what I am after.

“You tease,” he mutters.

I move up and kiss him, letting him taste himself.

His warmth is still intoxicating.  I run my hand sleepily over his hip; the repeating motion of lyrium rubbing against lyrium throbbing through our veins like a pulse.  A heavy drumbeat.  I can hear my heartbeat through the lyrium.  The lyrium I’m feel like I’m drowning in every time I kill.

The lyrium burns when I touch him.  When I touch _me_.

_I’m right here.  Not in the Fade.  It burns.  But I can feel my heart beating in your veins._

He knows.

*

When I wake, it is morning.

I rub my eyes and stretch, untangling the covers and limbs of the other Fenris next to me.  He too, stirs and wakes.  We look at each other silently, acknowledging each other’s presence.  Any passion we may have felt the night before seemed to have melted away.

I beckon for him to follow me to the bathroom to wash up, and we share the bathwater.  We do not look at each other out of respect, and this simple respect we have for each others’s ways is comfortable.  When we are washed and dressed, he suggests breaking fast and I lead us down to the dining area.

“Good morning!” chirps Al, hopping out of his seat to help Connie set two more places for us.

I nod in greeting, and turn to the other Fenris and ask softly, “Your Hawke, Al, seems a little…naive.  How does he survive Kirkwall?”

“He only seems that way because he sees you as a friend,” mutters the other Fenris.  ”The last time the stupid abomination got into trouble smuggling some apostates who turned all blood-mage on him, Al went after them and pretty much single-handedly slaughtered them all.  You should’ve seen his face.  Furious and bathed in blood, he was so _terrifying_ that no one dared speak of the matter for weeks after.”

I raise a brow.  

And without warning, Al crashes into the other Fenris, pushing him into the wall so hard I swear I heard his skull crack.

“I _missed_ you,” beams Al, crushing his love with a grip that looked like it could crush bears.

I look at the other Fenris struggling to breathe and I think our tastes in Hawkes aren’t that different after all.

By noon, Al and the other Fenris somehow disappeared during our trip to the Lowtown market.  I assume they have safely found their way back into their own world.  Connie places a hand on my shoulder as we make our way back to Hightown.

“Are you going to miss him?”

“No,” I tell her with certainty.

“You feel a little different,” she says, cupping my face in her large hands.  ”It’s like you’re more confident.”

“I am,” I admit.

_Connie._  She is all iron and steel, this woman.  She carries herself with such confidence even the Arishok would think twice before crossing her.  The Connie I know feels awkward when she _stumbles_ trying to kiss me, _coos_ at puppies when she thinks no one’s looking, and _adores_ window shopping.  She also loves the sun.  She loves it so much she has tan lines no one else but I know of.  

“I have you all to myself now, I hope?”

I laugh.  A deep, throaty laugh.  One I now know turns her on.  

“Of course,” I promise her.

And when she basks in the warm, golden light of the sun, _like this very moment_ , her eyes turn from its usual mysterious azure to the colour of an unhindered sky.

And it is then, _and always_ , when I look into her eyes, I see nothing but kindness and love in the enduring, boundless blue.

 

_Fin._

_  
_

***

**Extra**

“We have to put all these extra things you learnt to good use,” says Connie, her hands delving into the crack of my ass.  I’ve been letting her do as she likes as of late, and she has been rather sweet about it.  And if she wants to play with my ass, she is welcome to.

But this.

_This._

“Isabela says it feels just like the real thing,” Connie smiles fondly as she holds up something she calls a ‘strap-on’.

I sigh.  

Her gaze lowers in disappointment.  

How could I ever resist her?  I shake my head in surrender and kiss her on the cheek.

“I knew what I was getting into when I got myself involved with you, Hawke.”

And _that_ always makes her smile.


End file.
